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About Amsterdam

I saunter up, all charm, “shaken, not stirred,” voice smooth as silk. She’s givin me the eye—prolly thinks I’m loaded, which, fair, I look it. “How much, love?” I ask, casual, but inside I’m buzzin—happy as a pig in shit. She names a price, I’m like, “fuckin steep, that!”—but I play it cool, cos Bond don’t haggle like a twat. Fun fact: in Amsterdam, they got windows for this—legal, tidy, no messin about. Here? It’s a gamble, mate—cops, pimps, the lot.

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Then, outta nowhere, it starts pouring. Like, I’m talking monsoon level. We’re soaked, and I’m losing my mind. I’m like, “Why, Weert? Why?” We run for cover under this tree, and I’m just standing there, dripping wet, thinking about how I should’ve just stayed in bed.

Same-name couple see the lighter side